


Running

by spicedrobot



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dirty Talk, F/F, F/M, Face-Sitting, Hunt Avatar Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Hunters & Hunting, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Possessive Behavior, Rough Oral Sex, The Magnus Archives Season 4, Threesome - F/F/M, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Voyeurism, Werewolf Alice "Daisy" Tonner, ask to tag as always, maybe slightly fuck or die?, this is mostly jon/daisy and daisy/basira but they all are around when the sex happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27727712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: The decision should be more difficult, but Jon's tired of losing.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 3
Kudos: 61





	Running

**Author's Note:**

> This is an amalgamation of wanting Jon getting his leggings torn and to finally give into my Basira/Daisy/Jon thirst. The word cock is used for Jon in this fic. Enjoy!

Jon used to prefer reading statements in private. Peter Lukas’ involvement with the institute changes things. 

Loneliness could exist anywhere, even in a room full of people, but proximity helps them all feel just a little less isolated. So Jon reads with an audience. He makes do.

Daisy leans, silent and watchful, against the wall. Basira sits in the worn armchair across from him with a vaguely neutral expression. Distracted, perhaps, brooding. He could know the reason, the tantalizing licks of it like a stray thread he only has to pull to unravel everything.

“Statement of Natalie Chen in regards to her lover, Kathleen Sumner, and a tanned wolf hide discovered on a camping trip in Eastern Europe.” 

Statements are only faintly nourishing anymore, no matter how hungry he is. He slogs through the flat, unsatisfying words on the page, greasy and lukewarm on his tongue. Basira and Daisy look on, silent, watchful. No, not silent. Quiet. 

His attention splits, catches Daisy’s unwavering gaze. She’s bone-sharp and weary from resisting the call, but her eyes have a familiar gleam. It’s the ghost of the expression she wore when she had pressed the knife to his throat with Mike Crew’s corpse at their feet. 

“Her arms, which had been soft and smooth, felt coarse, like the coat of the fox terrier I had as a kid. I tried to back away, to run, but with every step, she advanced. Her eyes were sharp, focused. Hungry.”

The pallor of Daisy’s face is oddly rouged, scars and freckles stark in the fluorescent light. A veneer of health. Jon wants to believe it. He wants more than anything for something to go right for once, for a single person to overcome the fears that cling and claim and twist them irrevocably. For a single victory without great, horrible cost.

His voice wavers, but the hunger snaps taut, unwilling to let what little fear he could harvest be stolen. 

“I ran. I knew I shouldn’t have. I knew that’s what she wanted. But I couldn’t fight it, the need to escape, the need to be...pursued. It was overwhelming.”

She’s listening now, gaze a palpable weight, nothing like the subtle focus of the Eye. How _had_ he selected this particular statement? At random, whatever had called to him, but why?

“The inevitability was the worst. Knowing she would catch me. Knowing that at any moment, I would feel her breath on the back of my neck, that I would be tackled to the ground, unable to move. That she would have me...that I wanted it. That I would give her everything and she would take it gladly.”

Static prickles through his bones as the final line snaps from his lips. Jon wants to blame the sleeplessness, the flares of pain in every place he’s been carved and burned and scarred. But really, there’s no excuse, completely obvious if he had been paying attention. He gives it form before he can stop himself, reaches his fist through the dark, frozen waters of that endless ocean and tugs the knowledge from its depths. 

“You...you’re in heat,” Jon breathes.

Daisy stares at him, body still, expression unreadable. She does not look away because that would be a tell, and Daisy doesn’t do tells. Basira, however, looks surprised.

The silence draws acutely uncomfortable. Jon feels the hot rush of blood to his face.

“Daisy, I..I’m...I didn’t mean to, um, know. I…” 

The Hunt, the predator, the change. How much does a person retain their humanity once it takes hold? That it could manifest in other, bestial ways—he swallows against the curiosity.

“Yeah,” she says. 

“That’s...just...are you okay?” 

“Not sure. Never had to deal with it much when I was...feeding. Usually a good bloodletting made other urges less important.”

“But you’re not hunting, not now.”

“No.”

She doesn’t blink, arms crossed in front of her, arms that had wasted away to razer angles and rejection.

“Daisy…”

“Don’t.”

His hands draw into fists against his desk. 

“No, we need to...do something about this. I don’t want to lose anyone else. Not if there’s a way to stop it,” Basira interrupts.

“It’s not really your choice,” Daisy replies.

“So, what?” Basira says. “You’ll just let yourself die?”

Daisy’s lips thin.

“Maybe,” Jon says, quietly, “it doesn’t have to be a hunt. Not a real one. Something that...feels like a hunt, but doesn’t end in, well, bloodshed.”

Daisy sighs, a quiet, short noise. “I can’t promise that.”

“But maybe I can even the odds. Could...compel you. It’d give Basira enough time, at least…”

“Enough time?” Basira asks.

“Enough time to kill me, just in case,” Daisy finishes. “But that might not mean you get out unscathed. You aware of that?”

“W-well, I did just read the same statement you both heard…” He clears his throat. “I...while it isn’t something I really considered before, I...I think it’s worth trying if it helps.”

* * *

The car ride is awkward, but there’s no way it couldn’t be. The Archers crackles through the speakers. Daisy insists on driving, that having something to focus on would be centering. She was right, at least, even if the flush that tinged her cheeks sluggishly spreads down her neck as Jon looks on in the back seat.

It’s near dusk, and the moon hangs low on the horizon when it isn’t obscured by trees. He goes over the plan, ignores the tight twisting in his stomach. Depart from one of Daisy’s safehouses. He would go first, then Daisy. Basira would pursue, a hunter and protector both. Hopefully he could run long enough to make it sporting, but she would probably drag it out regardless. What good is the hunt if it ends too soon? A flashlight to guide his way, though he would follow the trail. Safer, less likely to get lost or twist his ankle. Then...then she would catch him. Boundaries discussed, as much as they could be. He swallows down a sigh. The car suddenly feels much too warm. 

It’s full night when they reach the cabin, tucked into the woods so expertly he doesn’t notice it until they’re parking in the gravel driveway. The cabin is small but serviceable. They drop off their supplies inside. There’s a clinging chill to the air, but Jon removes his sweater anyway, opting instead for a t-shirt and leggings beneath athletic shorts. He has a feeling he won’t be cold.

He checks his laces, and when he stands, they’re both looking at him, one pallid, the other dark. 

“Having second thoughts, Sims?”

Jon works around his words. This is his out. He won’t be able to turn back once they start. He heard the same statement they did.

“No...I’m, um, I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

Daisy and Basira exchange a look, then they nod, synchronous and bewildering.

“Right.”

He’s never been anywhere near athletic, but he doesn’t need to be. There’s a click somewhere far off, the whirring of tapes. Jon realizes with a start that he’s shaking. Dread. Anticipation.

He runs.

Loose gravel and packed dirt beneath his feet, moonshine trickling through the heavy canopy of leaves. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Steady, succinct shifts of his arms. His eyes lock to the wavering, jerking blade of the flashlight before him. He can almost imagine he’s taking a pleasant evening run. 

Then comes a sound. A sound that seizes the primordial part of his mind that knows humans only arbitrarily occupy the top of the foodchain. Take away their tools, distance them from the herd, and they’re little more than breathing meat. It’s not like a wolf’s howl, not quite. It’s how he imagines a werewolf would sound, throaty and piercing and growing louder with each patter of his heart. A shiver races up his spine, peppers the flesh on the back of his neck. 

The gnashing of gravel behind him, four footfalls instead of two. How easily he forgets how to breathe, how uncannily familiar the fear is tying up his stomach in knots.

No, not real fear. She wouldn’t hurt him. Basira would make sure of it. It all feels like empty platitudes and pretty words as he whips by the underbrush, arms and legs caught and scratched, breath loud and ragged, drowning out the sounds of pursuit.

She would hear him. She would find him. She would catch him. Another howl. Closer. He shoves the fear down, focuses on the ziggzagging light. She would catch him, but that’s the point. He just had to make it good. Had to make himself a worthwhile target. God knows he’d been that for nastier things than Daisy. 

Logic is the first thing that goes. Hot breath ruffles his hair, coarse hands pluck at his shirt, catch against his skin, leaving narrow slivers of blood like a promise. He tastes copper on his tongue, throat razed from the frigid air. It goes on forever, the end in tortuous sight as the moon slips low in the sky. The world is bathed in black and bone white streaks.

Jon screams when he hits the ground, and he does not know if it is in terror or relief. He lands face first in cold, dewed grass just beyond the trail’s edge.

“Got you,” the voice is so low, rasping, joyous. “Got you, Sims.” 

She’s a furnace along his body, heavy and unmovable. Daisy had been caved in and starved, but she feels huge, strong, impossibly so. Her palm is rough against his nape.

“D...Dai–sy...” He wheezes, heart fluttering against his ribs like a frightened bird in its cage.

For a terrifying moment, he feels her claws curl around his neck, trace the scar in a jagged line along his adam’s apple.

“Mine. _Mine_ . _My_ prey. You’ve run so long, but I got you now.” 

He knows she doesn’t just mean this night, and he quakes in her hold.

“Daisy.” He tries again. “How’re you–”

She tightens her fist, and his question dissolves into a whimper.

“No. No words.” Her body feels like a livewire above him, twitching and clenching. She presses her words against his throat. “Smell it on you,” she murmurs. “Getting off on it.”

Jon shakes his head. Daisy laughs, rough and ruined. She’s right, of course. Fear mixed with desire. It licks through him, igniting his nerves and mind and body from his guts to his extremities. Not for her, not really. Just for the taste of it, the thrill, the _experience_ of the pursuit. Had he missed it? Had this been an inevitability for them both? Predator and prey playing at pleasantries until the facades wore thin enough to crack, to bring out what they truly were? The knowledge laps beneath that weakening door, and Jon shoves his mind away from it all.

Daisy’s hips move in incriminating ways, dragging in harried little snaps against his backside. Heated from the chase, burning up from this, the evidence of it carved into their bodies. He doesn’t know what to do, how to reciprocate. Another tape clicks on next to his head, though he can’t see it, lost in the brush nearby. 

He knows Basira is there. He knows when Daisy knows, body tensing, attention snapping forward with a soft, punched out growl.

“Easy. ‘m not gonna take him from you,” Basira says, low and soft. “Jon?”

“I...I’m ok.” 

Daisys growls again, and she wrenches hims around like he weighs nothing at all. She straddles him, and he chokes out another noise. Her eyes are dark like a starless night, deep and bottomless and hungry. He gasps, another jolt of fear twisting through him, and she smiles with a mouth far too wide, fangs bright with saliva. Claws shred through his shirt like it’s air, thin, angry lines crisscrossing scar-pocked skin. She rolls her hips against his, and even clothed, it feels too much, his mind oscillating between violence and knowing and the teasing burn of their bodies slotting together. It wins, in the end. It always does. His mind hungry for those damned answers, dwarfing anything else.

“What do you want?” 

His tongue tingles like he pressed it to a battery, and above him, Daisy shivers, grimaces. 

“Never make it easy,” she bites out, like it’s hard to even form the words. “I want to use that mouth of yours.” 

He senses more than sees how Basira draws closer as Daisy moves. Her shorts come off with frightening swiftness, exposing wide, flat hips, scars glinting on freckled skin, trails of dark blond hair leading between her legs. She’s dripping, swollen, clit large and dark. Jon feels his face warm. He’d done this with Georgie, but always to her soft direction, at his own pace. Daisy has much different intentions.

He doesn’t know what expression Daisy sees on his face, but she grins all the same, slides her fingers over her clit, watches him watching her. Basira makes a small sound of her own. 

She shifts up his body, sinuous and quick, movements too fluid to track, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Not when her hips frame his head, wetness dripping on his lips, her scent musked and salty sweet. He gingerly places his hands on her thighs (coarser than they look, fur beneath the skin), and tips his head up to taste her. She grinds down with shocking immediacy, a moan he nearly feels rumbling from her chest. The back of his head flattens to the grass beneath.

The pace is instant, brutal. All he can do is try to make it good, swivel his tongue against her, sucking when she grinds down and holds. Rutting, using, claiming. He’s achingly hard, dampening his leggings.

 _Christ_ , she said she could smell him–

His eyelids flutter for a moment. It should’ve been instinctual, to let his eyes fall shut, to endure and pray that this would be enough. Only he doesn’t. He stares up Daisy’s body, feverish, fiendish, drinking in that undercurrent of terror and delight and the want he should not have and that should not _be_.

A dull thrum of excitement as a shadow falls over them, eclipsing the dappled moonshine. Another bite of possession, lips peeled back and fangs exposed. Basira does not hesitate. She cups Daisy’s chin, tips her head up.

There is something between them, charged and bright and plucking at Jon’s mind, begging to be known. He watches when their lips meet, but he tears his focus from it, drinks in what is easier, what has been granted freely, page tempting but unturned. 

The wet, quiet smack of lips meeting, another growl, a small lunge as Daisy noses beneath Basira’s hijab and marks the flesh she finds. Daisy doesn’t let his tongue do more than brush against her entrance, grinds her clit against his tongue, the animalistic grunts sweetening as Basira’s hands slip beneath her ratty, sweat lined t-shirt. Daisy’s close, he can feel it, he can taste it, lips coated and bright with her heat.

Her hands dig into his hair, clasping around the tangled bun that had mostly fallen loose in the chase. Harder, faster. He can’t breathe, and the unconscious jerks to escape only tighten the thighs flattening to the sides of his head.

Afraid he’ll bolt, that she’ll have to give chase again, that he might deny what he offered her right before she could take it. The power of it feels like so many hands against him, stroking, holding, aching. His body pulses dangerously as Daisy nearly screams, jerks against him so hard his head divots the soft earth beneath. Her thoughts a litany spewed. Filthy, inhuman things that would have him sputtering if his mouth wasn’t already occupied.

_(Take it Sims like it don’t you wanted it so bad leaking all over yourself for it yes mine mine MINE)_

She grinds out her orgasm as Jon gasps against her, mouth swollen and ruined and tingling. Strangely sated, even as his body trembles for more. It had always been an easy enough thing to ignore.

“Still okay?” Basira asks, her voice rough, her eyes dark.

“Y-yes.”

Daisy isn’t done, not by a long shot. There is fear, laced with desire, a feedback loop of their own making. The aches of his body, the lack of air, the lack of pause. He’s half mad after her second, her thighs clenched tight beneath his hands. Her third is a shaking, wild thing, spots in his vision from lack of air, watching, even now, always watching. He whimpers when she finally pulls off of him, lines of slick and saliva gossamer between her cunt and the lower half of his face. 

She is gleaming, triumphant, grinning with too many teeth and glittering eyes as she smears through the ruined mess of his face with her rough palm. He tips his head away, and she laughs, rumbling and wicked.

His head is buzzing, swimming. Sensations, knowledge, experienced. He tries to draw himself inward again. Make himself more human instead of whatever he is now, a watcher, a conduit.

“Liked it, didn’t you, Sims. I can tell.”

Cloth tearing. An unyielding hand on his stomach as something hot and wet drags against him. He slaps his palm over his mouth, catches the garbled sound forced from his throat as Daisy licks him again, her tongue languid and smooth against his cock. Dangerously, stupidly close. When had he, he hadn’t noticed—he thrashes, but she needs only press down to immobilize him. Slick, quick little rolls of her tongue, lapping, then she’s pressing deep, lips locked against his body, the barest grazing of teeth. His heart snaps against his ribcage, lower body molten, weak and alien and writhing. Basira kneeling next to him, watching, watching, he can see it through her eyes: Daisy buried against him, wet and smiling, feasting as he shakes beneath her grip.

He must say something, a swear, a warning, then it’s all heat and helplessness and whining pitifully into the back of his palm. Trembling, snapping his hips against her suckling mouth, rumbling with her pleasure and laughter. She doesn’t let him go until he’s wailing with it, made a mess so thoroughly he isn’t sure if he’ll be able to stand after this, much less hobble back to the cabin. 

He peers at Daisy between his legs. Perhaps he had always been looking at her, mouth slick and pleased. She nuzzles into his inner thigh, her eyes blown, half-lidded. He isn’t sure how he’ll be able to look her in the eye later. 

Later. A less terrifying concept, at least in the short term. Jon gasps hoarsely as Daisy draws her tongue along his cock a final time, slow, like he’s sweet, like she’s savoring him. Then her weight is gone, and Basira lets out a short yell.

“Thought you’d get off easy.” Daisy’s eyes reflect gold in the dark. “Still hungry.”

Jon tries not to watch, but the Eye is still hungry too.


End file.
